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I remember the first time E. bought her Spanish dictionary. During our senior year of college, E. explained to me that she needed a Spanish dictionary. I didn’t get it—kept pointing to the many Spanish-English dictionaries on her bookshelf. No, no, she patiently explained, I need a real Spanish dictionary—one that gives the definitions in Spanish. Of course, I finally realized, of course she needs that.
Last week, my teacher suggested I buy a Spanish-Spanish dictionary to help build my vocabulary. A very basic one, she recommended. So yesterday I bought what appears to be a maybe middle school level Spanish-Spanish dictionary so that G. can have our Spanish-English dictionary.
Shew! Vamos a ver!
One of the neat things about being a traveler here in Argentina really is meeting people from all over the world. A few weeks ago, I met this great couple who, I think, may be the symbol of the changing face of Europe. She’s from Poland, he’s from Italy, and they live and work in Ireland. Their relationship happens mostly in English because he doesn’t speak Polish and she only eeks by in Italian. But they both speak French and English and, now, Spanish. And then there was this couple from Switzerland—though he’s from the French part and she’s from the Italian part. For a while, their relationship was all in English. And then they realized that it was stupid to do their relationship in English when no one around them really speaks English. So now they speak French Mondays to Wednesdays, Italian Thursdays through Saturdays and English on Sundays (or something along those lines). I mean, I know its silly to be amazed by the multi-lingual nature of Europe, but really…incredible.
Okay, so here’s a funny thing. I spent the last four weeks in a Spanish class with this kid from Seattle. Mostly, we spoke all in Spanish. But then he came over to watch the McCain-Obama debate on Friday night and we spoke all in English. It was so funny to hear his voice in English—sounded totally different to me than his Spanish voice. The same thing is funny to me when the people who work at Instituto Intercultural switch over to English—like it’s a totally different voice, utilizing different vocal chords even.
Is that even possible?
American television is a big deal here in Argentina. G had a Spanish teacher one week who spoke clear, nearly unaccented American English. G assumed he’d spent significant time in the U.S. Nope, just a month. And a lot of Hollywood movies on t.v. Whoa.
So every once in a while my English class has funny questions about English in the U.S. Like, hat does it mean when people say “Hey gang” or why does my client have a hard time saying my name, Horacio? But last week they asked me about the N word…when is it okay to use it? Can we use it like we use Black or African American?
I’m not 100% sure where they first heard the N word…rap music? Movies? Television? Wherever; they all knew it.
I mean, how to explain why they can never use it? Never. I tried to be clearly emphatic, encouraged them to use African American or even Black, but never the N word. I stopped the whole class to explain the connotations of this word. Most of the people in the class have my skin tone, some a bit darker, some a bit lighter. In the U.S., people’d assume they are White.
But I don’t know enough history of Argentina; I didn’t know what to compare it to. How to explain that Black people can use this word, but White people never?
This is the thing about language—the more and more I learn about Spanish and about teaching English, it’s cultural. G is always talking about language is the basis of philosophy…and its more and more true to me. But how do I talk about that in an “English for Business Basics” class?
Last Friday was Chile’s 4th of July! Which really means that the streets of Mendoza were flooded with Chilenos celebrating. At first it seemed funny to me that Chileans would come to Argentina to celebrate—especially b/c there is some mostly friendly competition between the two countries (especially when it comes to soccer!). But then someone reminded me that Argentina is cheaper than Chile—the Chilean peso is stronger than the Argentinean peso. And, heck, Mendoza has a Plaza de Chilen en el centro de la ciudad. So, the Chileans camped out there all weekend.
I stopped by for a while yesterday. I’d heard the Chilean Spanish is so fast that Argentineans have a hard time understanding their neighbors. So I wandered around the square trying to spy on conversations. There is definitely a different accent…I didn’t notice any “j”s and it seemed generally to be a rougher sound. But faster? Ah, it’s all fast to me. I can’t tell yet.
The first day of Spring is a big deal here in Mendoza. Everyone flocks to the park or to their asados or to family’s homes. It’s a nice big family day here. And, fantastically, after two or three lousy weather days, we have a beautiful sunny day on the first day of Spring…so lovely. Smells good. Like a lovely Fall day in the Midwest.
One of the only mistakes in our plan for this trip is that we’re missing Fall in the Northern Hemisphere. And Fall in Alaska sucked—rain rain rain. So, really, this is the second year without a good o’ fashioned Midwestern (or even Northwestern) Fall. Not surprisingly, I’m craving a real Fall and will definitely savor Fall 2009! Is the grass always greener?
Okay, check this reality. I realized this week that I first started learning Spanish when I was in 9th grade—when I was 14. That means that I have been on-and-off learning Spanish for HALF of my life. HALF!? I mean, it’s sort of embarrassing to think about how bad my Spanish is when I realize I’ve almost lived longer with Spanish in my life than without it. Sheesh.
Empanadas, my friends. Empanadas con carne. Three words I love saying in Spanish.
So here’s the thing. I have been a steady vegetarian for almost ten years. Ten years. And I love being a vegetarian. This diet has taught me to enjoy the vegetables I didn’t grow up enjoying and made me slightly more adventurous in the meal department. And Greg’s cooking has grown with the challenge of cooking vegetarian-style!
But something is going on with me. This summer, I really got into eating the fish in Alaska—something I felt good about, in part because it was fish Greg caught within a mile of our house in some of the cleanest waters in the U.S.
For some reason, being in meat-loving Western Argentina has re-introduced me to meat. My first foray was when our landlord offered us some empanadas con carne. Oh, friends, these are DELICIOUS. I’ve tried ham & cheese ones and even the vegetarian version. But nothing even compares to the hamburger ones.
Oh, they’re the junk food of Argentina, so it shouldn’t be surprising at all that I love them.
But last night I crossed a different threshold. New friends invited us to an asado—a uniquely fantastic barbecue (slightly remniscent of those grand barbecues in South Africa [sidebar: what were those called?]). The guy was excited about this piece of beef he bought at the local butcher and I sort of went along with it, assuming they’d have a little something on the side for a vegetarian. But! When it came time to eat, I helped myself to a piece of the meat. And, friends, I really enjoyed. Even had a little second helping.
David Sedaris recently wrote a book about moving to Japan in order to help himself stop smoking. His rationale was simple: new patterns, new country means old habits will be easier to kick. Now, I’m in no way interesting in “kicking” my vegetarian habit, but I am startled to realize how easy it has been to fall into an occassional meat-eating habit.
The other day I actually understood a solid five minutes on the tv! I mean, sure, it would have been better if I could have done more than read the flashing headlines about Freddy & Frannie Mac or if I could have understood what those kids in Buenos Aires were protesting or why Brazil & Argentina are trying to create a common currency, but a kids’ cartoon program is as good a start as any!
And then they switched to an adult program, complete with conversations rapidÃsimos, and Spanish became like waves in the ocean, punctuated by the occasional recognizable word.
I’m also noticing that I can understand more and more of what people are saying to me, but it is not really matched by my ability to respond. Is it natural that I understand more before I can speak? Makes me feel dumb.
Poco a poco, friends.
A friend of mine once told me that I think about age the way that people in Southern California think about weight. She was maybe kidding a little bit, but in the two years since, I can’t help but wonder if she’s accurate. I do sort of use age to categorize, make assumptions about, put people into a box that helps me feel like I understand them.
So here’s what’s interesting. A year ago, I had just started my first salaried job and was just learning the art of becoming friends and intimate co-workers with 50-something women .The wide majority of the people I worked with in Alaska were 50-something women. Women who taught for years, retired, and wanted back in the education game. Women who used to work for the democratic Lt. Governor and had to look elsewhere for work when Palin was elected. Women who write poetry and books. At first, I was hesitant and intimidated to be working side-by-side with these women. But they did more than take me under their wings, they made sure I knew the course myself. In fact, one of my closer friends in Juneau ended up being one of those 50-something women.
And last night, Greg & I made friends with a 50-something ex-pat couple who go to the Spanish school. I’m shockingly decent at keeping up an intelligent conversation with 50-something women now. And enjoying myself while doing it, rather than feeling like the age difference makes us OTHER from each other.
I am indebted to Juneau. I just had to come to the other side of the Western Hemisphere to realize it.
Yesterday, we re-upped our month-to-month rental agreement with our landlord. So we’ll definitely be in Mendoza until October 23. It feels oddly good to be this sort of settled. I feel like I’m learning Spanish slowly and without the pressure of, “Oh my gawd, I only have three days left to learn as much as possible!!” So that is nice.
We’re thinking about heading South in November. I need to write PhD applications (due roughly December 15) and I think a quiet small town might be good for that. If anyone knows of great small towns in Western Argentina (think: Lake region? Something near San Martin de los Andes, but less touristy?), let me know!
G & I are closing in on one year of marriage this week. One year. I am sort of startled its only been one year. Should I feel like its gone really fast because its been so great? Well, there have definitely been great parts, but its also been a hard year. I feel like part of what is going on here in Argentina is a slow healing of the parts of each other we have beaten up over the last year and a half. I catch Greg looking at me with a new something in his face—sincerity? Interest? Wholeness? And I know every once in a while my eyes happily catch something he does with a new appreciation for the man I fell in love with four years ago.
Maybe it’s being in Argentina. Maybe its speaking Spanish. I realized I was in love with Greg when I went to Guatemala four years ago. Is it being out of Juneau? Could it really be the sun? That feels superficial, on one hand, but healthy, on another. To remember that we are linked with the eco-system seems healthy.
We are breaking old patterns, slowly digging ourselves out of our finely-honed ruts. We are seeing each other with new light and it feels invigorating. Life-saving.
So I’ve been thinking a lot about my high school Spanish teacher these days. It strikes me that, really, what she taught me remains at the base of my ability to get around here. Even when my teachers here in Mendoza review grammar rules with me, I remember that Sra. taught me these first. And even though I have forgotten them through disuse, they remain a part of the deep recesses of my knowledge base.
Greg thinks its either remarkable or crazy that I am still relying, for the most part, on high school Spanish. Yes, of course, I took Spanish in college, but I think maybe I shouldn’t have been placed in the lit class or I never should have stopped taking the classes. Either way, I only remember reading Jorge Borges in that class (which is actually a great thing to remember, since Borges was from Argentina!).
I am excited to surpass my high school knowledge of Spanish—and starting to use the subjunctive is the first step toward doing so! But I have also been thinking about how many people from my high school class have gone on to spend their lives using Spanish—one friend of mine spent a Rotary year in Mexico and then married a man from Mexico. Another uses Spanish in her work as a doctor. And another spent time in Argentina after high school and I can only assume he still uses it. Sort of amazing how Sra. Gross, a teacher in a small town in South Dakota, grounded so many students in an appreciation for speaking a foreign language.
Since I was eighteen, I have been back and forth about being a teacher. In the last ten years, I have managed to enroll in and then quit TWO teacher-prep programs. And over the last year in Alaska, I worked with so many teachers and students, a lot of people just assumed I was a teacher…and I sort of let them, but my heart wasn’t in it. I quit my job in Juneau because it didn’t feed my soul like I want my work to do.
But it seems I can’t quite get away from teaching. Despite my lack of training, I am the new ESL teacher for a group of eleven or twelve students and Belatrix, a software development company in a suburb of Mendoza. The challenge is real and I am enjoying it so far. They are eager students with many clients in Utah (why Utah? I’m not sure yet…).
It’s an interesting thing to teach something I know so intimately as my own language. Teaching people how to use English proficiently makes me feel differently about the language. The act of instructing the “how tos” English makes it seem somehow outside of me, like it is somehow not quite my own. As if I have to somehow pull it out of my being to be able to look at it and talk about it. And if I forget to do that, I can’t see it quite right and can’t teach it, can only use it and say things like “that’ just how it is.”
Does that make any sense?
Words, languages, communication. These things are consuming my life.
Okay. Let me just say that South America is NOT Central America. I know, I know. What a ridiculous thing to have to say. But for some reason I imagine Argentina as mas or menos lo miso como Guatemala. But this is not Guatemala. I love Guatemala and look forward to returning sometime in the future. But one of the scariest things about Guatemala, for me, were the buses. Winding around twisty roads as I traveled from Guatemala City, over to the East Coast and up to Flores, I just closed my eyes and hoped for the best as my body rocked and rolled around the seat I shared with one or two other people.
The buses in Argentina and Chile are not the same. These are some swanky traveling machines! And I am pretty sure that I haven’t just stumbled into the more expensive touristy version—there are lots of “Mendocinos” riding with me. It’s an enjoyable breeze to travel around here. Wahoo!
Last Saturday, we went on this random hike in the high desert outside Mendoza. A small group of students from the school jumped on the bus in the morning headed to Petrerillos, a little town about an hour into the mountains from Mendoza. We didn’t exactly find a hiking path and ended up spending most of our hiking time eating lunch on this massive rock.
The land is red red red here. My shows are still tinted red from wandering around this desert. For miles and miles, all we could see were mountain peaks, many covered in snow.
At one point, I found a rock that had some lichen growing on it. Years and years ago, C. taught me about the miracle that lichen is. She taught me to be careful not to disturb it since it takes years to grow. In the rainforest of my home in Alaska, lichen covers the land like carpet, so I grew careless with the miracle. Wandering around this desert of Argentina, I was reminded of it’s miraculousness. There, in the middle of dry scrub and dry rivers, lichen struggled to make its home on the sides of rocks.
Sometimes I am amazed by how life on earth can scrape out an existence.
I remember the first time E. bought her Spanish dictionary. During our senior year of college, E. explained to me that she needed a Spanish dictionary. I didn’t get it—kept pointing to the many Spanish-English dictionaries on her bookshelf. No, no, she patiently explained, I need a real Spanish dictionary—one that gives the definitions in Spanish. Of course, I finally realized, of course she needs that.
